Creation By Fire - A Short Story

An Old Friend

A burned and battered man turned slowly, rolling over on his
back as pain shot through his body. He started to lift his right
arm, but stabbing agony shot through it, causing him to moan.
The sound echoed in the burned, wrecked room.
"Help! Can anybody hear me?"
He listened breathlessly, then gasped and moaned, close to
crying, but not quite allowing himself that luxury. He held his
right arm with his left hand and managed to get his feet under
him. A small light behind a pile of trash lit his way to what
seemed to be a control board. Was he on a ship? If so, was he
in space? Was he alone?
He looked around himself. He was in a burned, metal room
full of trash. The trash appeared to have once been equipment
and supplies, but the smoke damage made it all look like black
soot. He pulled trash away from the light and found it to be a
personal recorder. The memory core was damaged and lifeless, but
the screen glowed with a friendly blue light. He turned the
recorder to get a better look at the room around him. Nothing
was familiar. It was as if he had been beaten, drugged, and
dumped in a strange place. He... he? Who was he? Why was his
name and personal life shrouded in a hazy mist? He suddenly
wished he had a mirror. But considering the burns on his face,
maybe he was lucky not to have one.
The man stumbled over the wreckage with his broken right arm
tucked in his shirt. He needed medicine, he needed help.
Setting the personal recorder on the control panel, the man took
up a handful of partially burned plastic sheets and dusted off
the panel until he could read the words, at least those which had
not been burned off. How could so much damage occur and he still
be alive? He shook his head in wonder, then groaned at the agony
it caused. He read the words slowly, so their significance could
sink in. "Astrogation", "Navigation", "Communication", "APU"...
wait a minute, APU seemed to be what he wanted. He couldn't
imagine what it might mean, but his fingers reached for the red
switch and suddenly flicked it up. The lights came on overhead,
nearly blinding him. Screens came on in front of him. One
seemed to be a damage control report. The list of damage
scrolled continuously, but it was meaningless to him. He turned
and looked at another screen and his miraculous survival was
suddenly explained.
"Personal protective field has been deployed. Projected
survival is favorable. Personal protective field holding at
78.9% efficiency," those were the last blinking words on the
screen, printed before the ship became lifeless and the program
stopped.
He faintly remembered investing a great deal of credits in a
personal protective field. It was new-tech, advertised as being
able to sustain life, even if the ship was destroyed around it.
Well, it was almost put to that very test, from the look of the
ship. But what ship and who was he? His eyes ran around the
room and suddenly landed on metal and glass case on the wall that
he deemed important. The glass had exploded in the fire, but the
aluminum foam case was still intact. He knew the case was
significant. It was his main source of pride and had the place
of honor above the control panel. But why? He approached the
case and gently rummaged through the broken glass until he found
a metal object inside. It was a large tin shield. As he turned
it his heart leaped in his chest.
"Intergalactic Police Force" stood out above all else. Was
he a cop? He certainly appeared to be. The badge also held a
badge number, stated that his precinct was Earth, and a number to
call in case the badge was lost and found. Well he was certainly
lost and badly needed to be found. He went back to the console
and examined it for some way to call. There was nothing even
resembling a communication device. He stared at the room around
him and looked at the pile of trash. With some difficulty he set
up the fallen console and forced it back against the wall. By
some miracle it was still alive. He started to reach for a dial,
then quit, not knowing what to touch, twist, or turn. He finally
pressed the "send" button and waited. Then he waited some more,
but nothing happened.
"Billing information?" a voice said behind him. He spun
around, feeling nauseated at the sudden movement. There was
nobody there.
"Hello?" he called tentatively.
"Yes? How would you like this call to be billed?"
He realized that the voice was coming from overhead, it must
be connected with the communicator.
"Uh, can you hear me?"
"Yes sir."
"I've been in an accident, I need help."
"And how would you like this call to be billed?"
"I don't know, I don't even know who I am," the man said in
exasperation.
"I'm sorry, sir, but without billing information no call can
be completed. Thank you for using TG Intergalactic. Please call
again..."
"Wait!"
"Yes sir?"
"I think I'm a cop. I'd like to call 899-fff-igpf-5587."
"And how will that call be..."
"Just bill it to them!" he screamed. The burned flesh and
broken bone were causing him unbelievable agony. His entire face
and neck seemed to have been burned away.
"Yes sir. One moment. Identification please."
"How the hell should I know, I told you I have amnesia.
Wait, I have the badge number here, IGPF-E 9376."
"One moment."
"IGPF, what's the nature of your emergency?" A new voice
asked from the ceiling above his head.
"I'm a cop, my ship crashed and I'm badly burned with broken
bones and amnesia."
"I see. Is your ship repairable, or permanently damaged?"
"I think it's a total loss, buddy. Who is this?"
"Desk Sergeant Suffix Madden. Your identification is listed
under the name of Inspector Bradley Weaver. Does that name mean
anything to you?"
"I'm... uh not sure, maybe. It seems to fit," the man said
uncertainly. "Hey, are we going to sit here talking all day. I
need help, I'm a mess."
"A rescue ship has already been dispatched. They will arrive
in a few minutes."
"Really? That's fast."
"Ah yes --- well not really. The trip will take them weeks,
but at light speed they will arrive almost instantaneously."
"Oh, that's something I should have known, isn't it?"
"Yes sir, it's basic navigation. Are you sure you can
complete your mission?"
"Sergeant, I don't even know what my mission was."
"I see. I will attempt to compile a transferable bio. It
may suffice until your natural memory returns."
"Is that good?"
"It will plug a supplementary memory into your empty brain
until it's back in working order. We have mind scans from your
psychiatric evaluation, along with the downloads after each
mission. In essence, it's you, all of your memories since
childhood."
"Great, yes, I like that idea."
"Under the circumstances, I believe I will reassign you until
you can function again. Your primary mission was to track down a
smuggler named Clirt Vansweesen. Does that register?"
"Yeah, wow. You wouldn't believe the feeling of deja vu that
hit me between the eyes. Gave me goose bumps."
"It would. You have been trying to track him down for almost
a decade."
"That long? I must not be a very good cop?"
"You are one of the best, sir, but he is the undisputed best
in his field. The pairing off of giants, so to speak."
"So shouldn't I be going after him now?"
"To be honest, you couldn't track down my mother if she was
sitting in the middle of Grand Central Station."
"So I'm on some sort of limited duty?"
"Yes. Let me be frank. An agent doesn't return to Earth
more than once every ten years, if he's lucky. Basically, you're
on your own out there. We may not hear from you for years at a
time. So you need a full set of brains, or you're dead."
"Ok, Sergeant, you know best. I'll just be glad to get out
of this stinking hole. Is that ship equipped with a medical
unit?"
"It's a top of the line military cruiser, it has everything.
Including a replacement cruiser for you. Can you fly it?"
"I'll let you know after the memories are plugged in."
"Fair enough. If you can make your way to the airlock they
will meet you there. Good luck, sir."
"Thanks, Sergeant, you've been a great help."

"Well," the doctor finally said after 12 hours of
reconstruction. "Your face is almost back the way it was, I
think. The bone structure seems to have been altered in the
past. Can you remember that?"
"I can't even remember yesterday," Brad said hopelessly. "I
don't remember anything before the accident."
"Well reconstruction is not uncommon. But it was no
accident. The report says that the energy discharges on the hull
of your ship match those of a Reigelian ship. From the look of
the damage a star-class destroyer or a small fleet. You don't
remember the fight either?"
"Not a thing," Brad said in a defeated tone.
"Just as well, it must have been a mistake. Your record with
the Reigelians is spotless. How are the supplementary memories
holding up?"
"Fine. The lack of recent memories bothers me a little, but
I'll get over it. That direct input machine is great. I wish
I'd had it during the academy."
"No you don't, they can be dangerous. A direct input machine
tends to erase old memories in order to install new ones. In
this case in didn't matter, since you had no old memories."
"I feel great," Brad said, standing and looking in the
mirror. "You could have removed some of the line around the
eyes, couldn't you?"
"Not a chance. I'm not making you look like a twenty year
old and getting my butt chewed out by Desk Sergeant Madden. He
said to put you back together like you were before the fire and
sent me the photos to make sure I did it right. He's right, of
course, the least amount of change is less traumatic on you."
"Well I'm brand new with a brand new cruiser," Brad said
enthusiastically. "What more could I ask for?"

"Good luck Inspector," the captain of the Belle Of
Mississippi waved out of his port window.
"Thanks for everything, Don," Inspector Brad Weaver waved out
of his forward window. The new police cruiser was smaller,
faster, and newer than anything he had ever flown before. He
couldn't wait to try her out, but curtesy demanded that he wait
until the larger ship got off safely. The Belle Of Mississippi
suddenly disappeared. White shockwaves of light spread out from
the direction of the now absent ship. Thanks to the memory
tapes, Brad now knew this was called the Radison Effect. It was
similar to the shockwave created by breaking the sound barrier,
but breaking a light barrier created a strobe-light effect with
bright white light that could blind anyone who stared directly at
it too long. That's why it was illegal to decelerate in a direct
line with any inhabited planet. It could blind thousands.
Brad turned his own ship and shot forward with a surge of
power. The little cruiser was completely different from his old
renovated 17 man fighter. This was designed to run down anything
in space and destroy it, if necessary. He had enough weapons at
his command to destroy several planets. Almost everything on the
ship would have been illegal in the hands of a civilian. But
that's what gave a cop his edge. It made him better, faster, and
stronger than any potential lawbreaker. He felt renewed pride in
his profession, now that he remembered who and what he was. Of
course all of his memories, and feelings, came directly from the
mind scans transferred to his brain, and recorded right after the
academy. He had been going through his patriotic period at the
time and was reliving it now. The later scans deadened the
effect slightly, but he was still full of pride and admiration
for the IGPF. He wanted action! Unfortunately, his first
assignment was three months away. He would hit the law books
again, to help supplement his new memory.
"Speed approaching critical mass" the computer said calmly.
It took him a moment to remember that any body approaching the
speed of light increased in mass, technically until it was too
large for the engines to move it. But science, of course, had
found a way around that.
"Engage folded matrix engines," Brad said, watching his
needles, gauges, and readouts. The ship suddenly punched through
the light barrier and he was in the erie blackness of the void.
"I'm standing down, ship. Notify when we decelerate near
Devil's Cupboard."
"Aye, Captain."

The Devil's Cupboard, also know as DC, was a fifth generation
convict planet. Most of the original convict settlers had long
passed away, but the planet was still on the docket of routine
patrols. Brad's only task was to check in with the local
government, give his approval to the capital punishments cases at
central prison, then witness their executions. It was not on the
top of his favorites list, but duty was duty. And Federated
demanded an accounting of everything, even dead bodies.
He approached the outer defenses, slipped through the
hundreds of glittering satellites ringing the planet, and slowed
even more as he approached the atmosphere.
"DC main, this is IGPF-E 9376 on final approach."
"Who? Brad, is that you?"
"Who else Freebie."
"Man, you haven't been here since I was four feet tall.
What's up? Is something wrong with your voice?"
"Limited duty and yes. I managed to blow up my ship and
breath half the smoke. Now I cough a lot and I may never sing
tenor again."
"Wow, sorry. Got time for a drink later? I'll let you buy."
"Not this time, Freebie. Tell DC prison that I'm on my way,
will you? My docket is full. New Brazil is my next stop, the
trip takes 28 days, and they go into hibernation in a month."
"You've got it. But you had better have that drink on the
way back or I'll land you in the middle of a community riot next
time."
"Ok, it's a date."
"Landing cleared, the prisoners are being mustered. You have
no idea how shocked they look when one of you guys show up. Some
guys, and girls, have been waiting for almost four years on death
row, some were tried and convicted yesterday. They won't know
what hit them. It's kind of hard on them, not knowing when the
axe will fall. All-in-all, it's a real mess."
"I would just as soon abolish the death penalty, but they
tried that in the 20th century and almost destroyed the world.
Yeah, it's hard Freebie, but it's necessary."
"Ease up, Brad, there's a 500 kph limit over capital city,
remember?"
"Got it. Thanks Freebie, I'll see you on the return run."
"Bye, Inspector."

Brad sat patiently, trying to look solemn as the prisoners
were paraded out into the courtyard and lined up. There were
only seventeen of them this time, but more than Brad liked. Life
was such a waste for some people. These could have gone on to
enjoy rich, fulfilling lives, now they would simply rot. What a
waste. What was the attraction? Why did a man, or woman, turn
to a life of crime. It was beyond Brad's comprehension.
Brad suddenly realized that the death ceremony had begun.
"And prisoner 14439, found guilty of multiple rapes, murder,
sodomy..." Brad tuned out again. All this was simply a
formality. He didn't even know if he had the power to pardon any
of the prisoners, even if he had the inclination.
"Noted," Brad said loudly as the sentence was finished.
A middle-aged man was turned and marched into the execution
chamber. In a moment the doors to the little room were reopened
and the body was dragged out. Death by radiation was a popular
style of execution. It was said to be humane, although Brad had
never checked it out personally.
A woman was led to the door, turned to face the warden, and
Brad, then her sentence was read.
"Guilty of murder, child rape, and robbery," the warden said,
then looked up and nodded.
"Noted," Brad said again.
The woman cringed at his words. The fear in her face was
obvious. She smiled once nervously, then was turned and forced
inside the steal door. A few minutes later her body was dragged
away.
"Guilty of multiple thefts, assaulting an IGPF official,
attempted bank robbery, and kidnapping," the warden said.
Brad shaded his eyes against the sun to look at the man's
face. Assault against a police officer? He didn't seem to
recognize the man. Which officer had he assaulted, Brad
wondered. The brute of a man looked up at Brad. He suddenly
looked him over again more closely, from head to foot in obvious
confusion, then his eyes lit on Brad's glittering badge.
"Noted," Brad said as he returned the stare.
The man's eyes widened and he pointed at Brad. His mouth
worked wordlessly, then he shouted.
"Hey that's not..."
He was turned and shoved through the door. As the door
closed he pounded loudly and shouted, but his words were
unintelligible.
"Who did he assault?" Brad leaned down and whispered in the
warden's ear.
"Uh... you, Inspector!" the warden turned and looked
surprised. "Don't you remember?"
"No, but I wouldn't. I'm on limited duty because of an
accident. All my short-term memory was erased."
"Oh, sorry. He tried to kill you in Sector 17 three years
ago. Apparently you were attacked by him and a man named Clirt
Vansweesen. This man escaped, Vansweesen took you to a medical
facility and dropped you off, then he disappeared too. We picked
this man up while robbing a bank. His ID came back immediately
and he's been in prison since then. We've heard nothing about
Vansweesen, I don't think he's in this area."
Brad nodded and watched the next prisoner being led forth,
while the body of the brute was dragged away.
Brad was glad to get away from DC. Death ceremonies were
always depressing. For some reason this one bothered him more
than usual.

New Brazil was amazing. It was almost the size of Saturn,
it's gravity was twice that of Earth, and it had no seasons since
it didn't wobble on it's axis. But it did have a four month long
period of cold and darkness while it was eclipsed by it's larger
neighbor. The orbits of both planets were so similar, that New
Brazil stayed in the larger planet's shadow until it froze over.
At some point in it's long history, New Brazil's inhabitants
began a hibernation period which coincided with the eclipse.
When the galaxy became populated opportunists realized that the
entire planet was unmanned and unguarded for an extended period
of time. After waking up and finding their planet plundered of
everything of value, the New Brazilians asked IGPF for help. In
the early days IGPF officer would patrol the planet until the
inhabitants awoke. Now one officer simply had to flip a switch
and the defense of the planet became automated.
Brad sat in orbit, monitoring the hibernation alarms. He
knew he only had a short wait until every last one of the
residents grew suddenly tired and dragged themselves to whatever
shelter could be found. The smart ones stayed home near
hibernation.

"So you're telling me that Noverendray has no death penalty?"
Brad asked as he ate a synthetic apple and watched the blinking
alarm light.
"Correct," the computer said in it's unemotional, female
voice. "Noverendray's only form of punishment is branding. A
perpetrator is branded on his or her forehead. Once branded,
that person can never buy or own anything, and will not be spoken
too or recognized for the rest of their life."
"Wait a minute. Are you telling me it's a life sentence?"
"Yes."
"So what are the other forms of punishment, spanking?"
"There is only one punishment for all crimes. That is why
Noverendray has so few crimes, and they never call on the IGPF
for help."
"Wow. Remind me never to take R&R there. I'd get drunk and
wake up with a brand on my forehead."
"Very well."
"Ooops, there it goes," Brad slammed his feet down on the
deck. The alarm light had gone to a solid red, meaning every
last person on the planet was now asleep.
"Activate the outer defenses, ship."
"All satellite tracking and missile stations have been
activated."
"Great. Well that was simple, what's next?"
"Investigate a missing satellite on Pugorlia, preside over
the coronation of a new king on Deshal, then back to Earth for a
medical evaluation."
"Ok, take us to Pugorlia."
"Aye, Captain."
"So why are we investigating a satellite? It seems rather
trivial."
"This particular satellite was a cryogenic repository for the
greatest minds on Pugorlia. And I mean that literally."
"What do you mean by that?"
"The greatest citizens of Pugorlia's past had their brains
removed and deposited in this satellite."
"Ow. Where they dead?"
"Purportedly, yes."
"So who'd want a satellite full of old brains?"
"That is what you must find out, Inspector."
"Could this be related to that guy I was after, that Clirt
Vansweesen guy?"
"No, Captain. Mister Vansweesen is a famous con artist. He
once sold the residents of Reigel Seven an extra moon, supposedly
a huge asteroid full of precious metals. The residents bought
the asteroid and prepared to mine it, only to find it was the
smallest moon of Reigel Six, dragged into their orbit. Not only
was it worthless, but technically it already belonged to them.
He received one tenth of their gross national product in that
exchange."
"He sold them their own moon?" Brad laughed.
"Yes sir."
"I wonder if they'd like some swamp land to go with it," Brad
said, still laughing and pounding on the console.
"Reigel Seven is extremely dry," the computer said in all
seriousness.

Pugorlia was a dark, cold planet with few amenities. The sun
was nothing more than a distant bright white point of light in
their sky. The three moons were almost as large as the planet
itself, keeping most of the surface in near darkness. Brad
landed in a farmer's field and stepped down to the middle of
gangplank. He shivered as he looked around the cold, rocky
surface. The only thing keeping Pugorlia alive was it's red hot
core. This explained the tall, purple mountains spouting fire
and smoke all across the horizon.
"This place looks like hell," Brad mumbled in his collar
communicator button.
"The reference to each are interchangeable," the ship said
through the button.
"Meaning?"
"If someone says go to Pugorlia, the other person knows what
they mean."
"I see your point," Brad smiled.
"The Governor's car is approaching from the North," the ship
said.
"Great. And this place has great minds? The satellite must
have been pretty empty."
"It takes great minds to survive in an environment such as
this. It's easy to survive in Hawaii, much harder in Alaska.
It's also a very old civilization."
Brad watched the orange car approaching. He almost smiled at
the color, then realized that any color on Pugorlia was a welcome
change. The governor was a very large woman who had trouble
getting out of the car door and onto her feet. Brad moved down
the gangplank to meet her. He doubted if she could walk up it."
She walked is if both legs were broken and splinted. She
huffed when she walked like an old steam train.
"Are you the cop?" she asked without a welcome.
"Yes, governor."
"I want my father brought back. Our own ships searched the
nearest areas of the solar system, it's as far as they can reach.
He's not around. I want that little tramp brought back!" she
shouted.
"I thought I was searching for a satellite."
"You are, his brain is running it," she said, then glared as
if daring him to dispute it.
"I see," Brad said warily.
"Good, then do it," she turned and walked off.
"Hey, I need to ask a few questions," he called, startled at
the abruptness of the conversation.
The governor pointed at a young woman who stood on the other
side of the car, then jerked her thumb towards Brad. The fat
hand grabbed the top of the car door and the car rocked
dangerously close to tipping over when governor climbed into the
car. It turned and sped off, shooting dirt and gravel
everywhere, leaving the young woman standing alone in the field.
Brad sent a questioning glance from her to the car, then motioned
her forward.
"Hi, I'm Brenda, the Liaison Officer," she said meekly.
"A Liaison Officer? I thought your people spoke basic
English, why do I need a Liaison?"
"It's not for the speech, it's for the customs. Didn't
grandmother seem rather abrupt?"
"Oh yeah, very... grandmother?"
"Yes, she's my grandmother, but I can assure you I'm highly
qualified!" her face turned red in anger. She sighed in disgust
and waved a delicate hand, then took a deep breath to compose
herself.
"I'm sorry, after all my training I should be more
controlled. You see, we never learned polite conversation or
manners. We are very direct and... well impolite, most of the
time. Our environment and culture demand direct talk and rapid
action. I have studied for years to overcome this, that's why
I'm a Liaison Officer."
"Are you telling me that the entire population of your planet
has the manners of an old eccentric woman with an Irish temper?"
Brad asked with a half-smile.
"Yes, exactly, well-put. I will use that in the future, if
you don't mind."
"Feel free. Well come aboard, there's not much room for two
people, but we can adapt."
"Thank you sir, that is most gracious of you. Your kindness
is a shining example for us all."
"More practice?" Brad asked sympathetically as he ushered her
aboard.
"Yes, was it that obvious?" she asked in sudden concern.
"A little. Try to be less ingratiating, strike a balance
somewhere between your last phrase and your grandmother's
abruptness and you should have it right.
"Thanks. You are a very big help. It's really hard to learn
Earth customs from former citizens who have adapted to my
planet."
"I can imagine if they have to deal with half a million
grandmothers each day. Ship, we have a visitor. Liaison Officer
Brenda..."
"Phips."
"Brenda Phips. Log it."
"Yes, Captain."
Brad pulled down a jump seat between the control console and
the communication center. It wasn't as comfortable as a full
seat, but it would due for a short time.
"That's quite a title, Liaison Officer Brenda Phips."
"It's not my full title. My full title is Counsel General,
Governor General, Liaison Officer, Anti-propaganda Officer...
well it's long, as are the duties which go with it."
"Take us into orbit, ship. Ah Brenda, what type of
propulsion did the satellite have?"
"A positive/negative ion drive. I'm afraid we haven't
attained intergalactic travel yet."
"A PNID can be easily modified for intergalactic travel.
Haven't you worked with Earth specialists to perfect an
interstellar drive?"
"I'm afraid we really don't work well with others. We had an
Earth Engineer here for a while, but we pissed him off and he
left."
"You what?" Brad asked in surprised embarrassment.
"What? Did I say something wrong?"
"Who told you that you pissed him off? Where did you learn
that phrase?"
"I heard if from him. Is it incorrect?"
"It's slang, and usually not repeated in front of a lady."
"Oh... you... do you know how many times I've used that
phrase at official functions and nobody bothered to tell me
that?" her Irish temper was in full swing. She stood and stamped
her foot, her face turned beet red. She clenched her fist and
was about to bring in down on the communications console, but
Brad held up a hand and shook his head.
"Oh, I could just twist his little... sorry," she said,
shaking as she sat down. "I'm so embarrassed," she said, shaking
her hands in the air as if drying them.
"So the whole planet has a temper like yours?" he asked
skeptically.
"Oh much worse," she said with a sigh.
"You guys must go through a lot of dishes."
"Tons," she said with a very serious expression. "Dishes,
furniture, electronic devices, houses, everything," she raised
her hands in a sign of helplessness.
"Interesting place. Remind me to never take R&R here."
"Why, you don't find!... Sorry, sorry. If you'd like to drop
me off, I'd understand. I really need more work."
"No, I'll hang onto you for a while. You're interesting and
really cute, for a Liaison Officer," he teased.
"Thanks," she said with a genuine smile. It changed her
whole image. She was a very beautiful woman when she smiled.
But Brad had the feeling that she didn't smile often.
Considering their planet, he didn't blame her.
"I am picking up traces of an ion drive, Captain," the ship
interrupted them several hours later.
"What course?"
"336.45. It's a direct heading for the primary."
"The primary what?" Brenda asked.
"It means the primary star. Your sun."
"Oh no," Brenda looked suddenly terrified.
"Captain, the indications are that it left under it's own
power."
"How would you know that?" Brenda asked, suddenly angry.
"There is only one ion trail. It's very inefficient and
dirty, which means it probably originated in your solar system.
It is not an interstellar drive. Since the satellite has it's
own means of propulsion and there is only one ion trail, it must
be that of the satellite."
"The ship means that if your grandfather was trying to
escape, there would be two trails, the one taking him away, and
his while he tried to escape. There is only his."
"Suicide?" Brenda asked breathlessly.
"I have picked up course corrections which may indicated a
near orbit trajectory. He may be using the primary to accelerate
to an interstellar destination."
"What's that mean?" Brenda asked in exasperation.
"It means he may have used your sun to slingshot out into the
galaxy. If he had no need for air or fuel, he could be capable
of interstellar travel. It would be slow, but I don't imagine it
would matter to a disembodied brain. He has all of eternity."
"Yes, grandfather would do that, the little scumsucker,"
Brenda said angrily. "Don't tell grandmother, she would send out
suicide ships to blast him out of space."
"You're kidding?"
"No, not at all he stole our property."
"Well it should only take a few hours to track him down and
return him."
"Wait, Brad... let me think," she reached out and touched his
arm. He felt an electric shock come through her fingers. He
glanced at her in surprise, to see if she felt it, but she was
thinking. Apparently it was his imagination.
"Can you get your ship to lie?" she asked suddenly.
"Not even a little bit. This is a police cruiser, remember?"
"Yes, sorry. Can it delete the information after finding a
trail leading to the sun?"
"Ship, can you do that, in the interest of public relations."
"If asked I will have to relate all the facts. But if I'm
not asked, I will not volunteer the additional information."
"How's that?" Brad asked with a smile.
"Fine. So I'll tell grandma we followed his trail to the sun
and turned back."
"Great. Well we have a few hours until we get back, what
would you like to do?"
"Do you have fresh water showers on these tiny ships?"
"Yes, tiny ships come with tiny showers," Brad smiled at his
own witticism.
"Is it large enough for two people."
Brad's face suddenly fell. "I guess, I've never had the
opportunity to try it out," he said in embarrassment.
"Well we have a few hours," she said, jumping to her feet.
"Is this another aspect of Pugorlia's abrupt ways?"
"Yes."
"I like it!" Brad said, hurrying after her.

Although new to Federated, Deshal was so overpopulated that
it was bursting with people. Hundreds of suburban satellites
circled the main planet, holding one tenth of the Deshal
population. This allowed more room for agriculture.
Almost every building on Deshal was so tall that it's weight
nearly liquified the solid bedrock supporting it. The King's
palace was one of the few single-story buildings on the planet.
Brad was given a seat on the front entrance of the palace.
There were several hundred other seats around him, and the King's
throne only twenty feet away. Brad looked out at the millions of
faces before him. They stretched off into the distance between
the mammoth buildings, miles away. News hovercams buzzed
everywhere, not missing a single movement during the ceremony.
When Brad coughed, an annoying habit since his accident, and
slipped an inhaler out of his pocket, he found a hovercam inches
from his face filming the inhaler.
"Get out of my face," he said, pushing the camera away. Brad
found it very hard to breathe. The air was thin and the damage
to his lungs was not completely healed. It seemed that the
millions of people around him were breathing his air, so there
was none left for him. But he had to sit through the ceremony.
Even if he died on the steps, they would not haul his body away
until the ceremony was finished.
The coronation of the newly-elected King was a long boring
ceremony that had Brad completely fatigued. When it was over
Brad dragged himself back to the ship and had the ship log the
ceremony, then fell in the small bunk.
The ceremony had to be observed by a member of Federated, to
comply with the strict Federated membership requirements. They
were very strict about warlords and dictators. But Deshal had a
monarchy/democratic society. Brad's only purpose was to see that
it remained that way.

The ship set course for Earth. Brad had a hard time falling
asleep in a bunk which only a few weeks before seemed much too
small for two people, but now seemed much to large to sleep in
alone. He missed Liaison Officer Brenda Phips, he could still
smell her perfume on the pillow when he first laid down. He had
NEVER met a woman like her and new without a doubt that he never
would again. She was a study in contradictions, by far the most
interesting woman he had ever met. He missed her so badly that
he felt a dull ache in the back of his throat, an ache that no
pain killer could soothe.
"I've finally gone and fallen in love," Brad whispered to
himself in surprise. "With the most amazing woman in the
universe," he said, listening to the echo of his own voice.
"THE IN-LAWS!" Brad shot up in bed, banging his head against
the overhead locker. He didn't feel the pain, the vision of
Brenda's huge grandmother filled his mind. "Oh why me?" he asked
in horror. The pain he now felt had nothing to do with the huge
bruise forming on his forehead.

"Apache control, this is IGPF-E 9376 on final approach," Brad
said as he passed Washington state and zipped over Idaho.
"Say again!" a startled voice spoke from the overhead.
"I said this is IGPF-E 9376 on final approach. I am one-
three-five miles out on an easterly heading."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes, Apache control, I'm serious and I'm about to pass you.
Can I have landing instructions please?"
"Sure, sure. Put her down on runway one-niner. Adjust your
heading three degrees south at an altitude of fifteen hundred
feet. Ah, Desk Sergeant Madden would like to speak to you
privately. Put it down near the south concourse."
"Thanks Apache, will do."
"That's odd," Brad mumbled to himself as he passed the
invisible border of Wyoming and turned north for a landing. The
ship landed easily and taxied to the south concourse. It was
dark and deserted, far from all activity. Apache Wells was the
only fully functional IGPF landing field on Earth. They were
lucky to have it all to themselves.
"Download the logs and stand down," Brad said, climbing to
his feet.
"Aye Captain."
Brad stepped out of the airlock. Bright lights came up from
everywhere. Dark figures ran to surround him. He turned to duck
back into the ship, but it was too late. He faced an IGPF
officer with SWAT written across his helmet.
"What's this all about?" he asked in surprise.
"Raise your hands and prepare to be restrained," the officer
growled.
"I asked you..."
He was shot with a restraining field. He was paralyzed and
immobilized. They frisked him and took all his weapons, then
slapped anti-grav lifts on each side of his frozen body and
lifted him up and walked off with his body hanging between them.
He laid helpless, staring at the sky, then ceiling as he passed.
The restraining field was removed in an interrogation room.
Before he was able to talk again, he was alone. His trained eyes
spotted each hidden camera in the classically empty room. He
stood up and moved away from the table. The door clicked and two
men walked in.
"I'm Desk Sergeant Madden," one elderly man said as he sat at
the far side of the table. The other man looked remarkably
similar to Brad. He was about 35 or 40, two inches short than
Brad, and stood mute, simply glaring. Brad wondered if they were
related.
"We've talked, although I don't remember ever meeting you in
person," Brad said carefully. "Can you tell me what this is all
about?"
"That's what we are here for, to find out. Give me your full
identification, for the record."
"Senior Police Inspector Bradley H. Weaver," Brad said
guardedly.
Both the Desk Sergeant and the other man suddenly bent closer
to their collar communicators. The Sergeant gave the unknown man
a significant look. The unknown man looked surprised and angry.
"I told you," the sergeant said to the strange man, "he's
telling the truth."
"If I'm being interrogated I have a right to know my accusers
and all those present during questioning," Brad said, looking at
the strange man.
"This," the Sergeant pointed at the strange man, who was just
sitting down, "Is Senior Police Inspector Bradley H. Weaver," he
suddenly looked at Brad for his reaction.
"If this is a joke, I don't find it amusing," Brad said
angrily.
"My sentiments exactly," the other man said, staring Brad in
the eyes. Brad returned the stare until they were interrupted by
the Sergeant.
"Brad," he pointed at Brad and waved him to a seat, "what do
you remember before your accident?"
"Nothing, not a darned thing."
"We were afraid of that. You see the memory download I gave
you made your amnesia permanent. Unfortunately, the memory
download I gave you was not yours, it was his," he pointed at the
other man claiming to be Bradley Weaver.
"So who am I?" Brad asked, rubbing his head.
"For all intensive purposes, you are him. You both share the
same memories, the same drives, and the same desires. You used
to be... Clirt Vansweesen," he finished breathlessly, then
watched for a reaction. Brad, or whoever he was, felt no
familiarity to that name, other than what he had learned in the
memory tapes.
"This has to be a joke," Brad said shakily.
"It's not," the other Bradley said. "How do you think I
feel? I've been tracking you for ten years, and now when I
finally catch you, you end up being me."
"He did a darned good job as you too," Madden said with a
smile.
"You didn't catch me," Brad said absently. "But the badge?"
Brad said, turning suddenly.
"You stole it from me in sector 17!" he said angrily. "You
said you would keep it as a trophy!"
"He beat you fair and square, then left you alive to talk
about it," Madden pointed out. "You decided to shoot it out with
him unnecessarily and he beat you, Weaver. Now stop shouting in
my building!"
"He only left me alive to embarrass me," the other Brad said
stubbornly, then desisted upon receiving a withering look from
Madden.
"I'm sorry, but I don't remember any of this. I'm Bradley
Weaver," Brad insisted.
"Yes, you are," Madden said uncomfortably, "which is the
problem. We can't lock a good police officer up in prison for a
crime he can't remember."
"Why not?" the other Brad asked angrily.
"What if it was you?" Madden asked, pinning him with a stare.
"What if I told you right now that this was the real Weaver," he
pointed at Brad, "and you were the imposter. How would you
feel?"
"But... but he's not."
"Could you prove it?"
"I'm me."
"To him he is!" Madden shouted, pounding on the table. "And
I'm responsible," he said in a quieter voice. "Those crimes, all
non-violent by the way, were committed by a man who doesn't exist
any more."
"Well I don't suppose I will be allowed to just walk out of
here and do my job?" Brad said in defeat, trying hard to remember
another life.
"No!" the other Brad shouted.
"Shut up!" Madden glared at the other Brad. "No son, that
wouldn't be advisable. But I don't know what we can do."
"What about retirement without pay?" Bradley asked suddenly.
"We can't have you popping up all over the galaxy claiming to
be a retired police officer," Madden said.
"What about retirement without pay on a planet without
intergalactic travel and almost no outside visitors?" Brad asked
enticingly.
"It doesn't exist," the other Brad said sullenly.
"When was the last time you visited Pugorlia?" Brad asked.
"Never, and I... you're kidding," Brad could see that he
liked the idea. Exile on a planet known as hell, the most
unpleasant planet in the universe seemed to sooth his shattered
pride.
"Are you sure?" Madden asked softly.
"Very sure. I just left there and I have thought of nothing
else since. Can it be arranged?"
"I think you've come up with the only acceptable answer,"
Madden said with a nod. "What do you think, Weaver?"
"I like it," Weaver said with a slight smile.
"Maybe we can even arrange a little retirement pay and a
small runabout," Madden said with a nod. "But we need to retire
you under a different name. Any ideas?"
"What about C. V. Weaver?"
"Done. I suggest you visit as many stores as possible,
Pugorlia tends to run short on everything."
"I was thinking of reading material," Brad said absently, "If
I can't visit the galaxy, at least I can read about it."
Madden nodded and ushered him out. His badge was taken away
and he was given a visitor's pass in it's place. Brad... or CV
bought as much reading material as he could find, and a few more
items that a new bride would find exciting. Weaver himself
escorted him back to Pugorlia in his old cruiser. CV felt a
little possessive and resentful as the real Brad Weaver took over
the controls. A small runabout was in tow behind them.
"I don't envy you a bit," Inspector Weaver said, glancing at
CV as he thumbed through his new library disks.
"It won't be that bad. I met a nice girl there, I think I'll
settle down and raise a family."
"You're going to turn pig farmer? I wish I could tell the
guys about that. You realize that the runabout is only capable
of inter-system travel," he said, glancing at CV.
"I will just have to adapt," CV said with a slight smile as
he stopped at the positive/negative ion drive conversion disk,
then quickly covered it as he flipped through the others. "Maybe
I can use it to do a little prospecting. The extra credits may
come in handy."
"Don't try to sell them their own moon," Inspector Weaver
said with a smile, "they will send a suicide squad after you."
"I can't even remember that," CV said with a smile, "but by
God I wish I could."
Inspector Weaver chuckled, shaking his head.

Inspector Weaver landed on the same field CV had visited
weeks before. Inspector Weaver dropped the tractor controls for
the runabout, then reached out and firmly shook hands.
"It's been interesting," he said.
"You're not mad, now that you have your badge back?" CV
asked, shaking his hand firmly and patting him on the back.
"Not as much. I'll get over it," Weaver said with a forced
grin.
"Good enough. Good luck, Inspector Weaver."
"Same to you, CV Weaver."

CV was inspecting his runabout when the official orange car
pulled up in a cloud of dust. CV braced himself for the
Governor, but was overjoyed to see Brenda dash out and run around
to meet him.
"Brad, you came back," she said, throwing herself in his
arms. He managed to hold her up and kiss her at the same time.
"Are you really staying?" she asked, looking at the small
runabout.
"For a while at least. I decided to pick up where the
Engineer left off. Your people need an interstellar drive, if
only to take vacations in the sunshine."
"Wonderful. That's a very prestigious and high-paying
position."
"Good. After we get married we can buy a farm and you can
farm it," he said with an impish smile.
"Me! Bradley H. Weaver, I'll..."
"Hey, remember your training," he raised a cautioning finger.
She took the finger in a strong hand and squeezed it, then bent
forward and kissed him again.
"We can pay somebody to farm it while we test the new drive,"
she said with her head leaning against his shoulder.
"It's a deal. Well, I guess it's time to meet the in-laws,"
he said with a gusty sigh.
She nodded and stepped up to the runabout. CV opened the
hatch and helped her in, then set his canvas bag of treasures
carefully in her lap.
"What's this?" she asked, touching the bulges in the bag.
"Our future," CV smiled and turned the air-car toward the
city. "Here, put that in there too, I may need it some day," he
tossed a shiny piece of tin on the canvas sack.
"Your old badge?"
"Yeah," Brad said, laughing.